


Just Been Waiting

by lavvyan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When Watson finally does manage to have tea with Mary's parents, the event turns out to be an absolute disaster.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Been Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Just Been Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11038092) by [Hadlathneth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hadlathneth/pseuds/Hadlathneth)



> Written for the 2010 Holmes/Watson_09 exchange on LJ

When Watson finally does manage to have tea with Mary's parents, the event turns out to be an absolute disaster. Mr. Morstan disapproves of joining the army to help the wounded rather than shoot down the enemy. Mrs. Morstan keeps talking about Mary's former fiancé, "poor Roland Dunbar, God rest his soul," who was apparently more handsome, more intelligent, and more financially solvent than Watson himself can ever hope to be. And while neither of them so much as says the word cripple, their exchange of meaningful glances upon Watson's entry states clearly enough that a man with a limp is not desirable as a son-in-law. The afternoon passes through false smiles and awkward silences, the tension thickening until it hangs over their table like a damp woollen blanket, oppressive and discomforting.

Watson has never been so glad to leave a room since Holmes's latest experiment gave Gladstone diarrhoea.

It is not quite a death sentence for their relationship, since Mary can be as stubborn as certain other people in Watson's acquaintance. But her parents' disapproval weighs heavily on her, and much as Watson wants to be selfish, he cannot bear to see her suffer.

"I love you," he tells her gently, "but I don't want to come between you and your parents."

"You won't." Mary's lips are pressed together, her chin held high. Watson's heart skips a beat as he remembers the first time he saw her, bedraggled from the rain, eyes shining with amusement at her own sorry state. He's always been drawn to confidence. "They'll like you heartily enough once they've grown to know you better, you'll see."

But much as she may will the world into submission, circumstances do not always comply. He himself has learned that, taught by a leg that no longer obliges him in every manner and a fever that will not leave him be. Between setting up his practice at Cavendish Place and Mary preparing to leave her position in Mrs. Forrester's household, he hardly sees her anymore. Every time they meet, her smiles seem less frequent, more strained, though no less genuine. Twice more they have tea with Mr. and Mrs. Morstan, and both times are as exhausting as the first. Watson would like to talk to someone about the whole affair, but even if Holmes were the sort to lend a sympathetic ear, Watson isn't entirely sure that he isn't the source of the inexplicable dislike which Mary's parents harbour towards him.

This state of constant, quiet warfare cannot last, so Watson isn't surprised when Mary gives him back his ring in early December, standing in the darkened foyer of what was supposed to be their home. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised.

"My parents are leaving for the country," she says, her voice tired. "My mother has been struck by brain fever, and I… As abhorrent as their behaviour towards you has been, I am still their daughter."

"You must care for your mother," he says, and if his voice isn't entirely steady, she is kind enough not to mention it. They had both dreamed of a better life, after all. "I understand."

She smiles sadly. "You're a good man. I wish… well. Nothing has ever been gained by wishing." Her kiss is gentle, loving, and devastating in its finality. The ring digs deep into his palm as he clenches his hand into a helpless fist.

Nothing has ever been gained by wishing, indeed.

"I wish," he says when she pulls away, answering her rueful smile with one of his own, "for you to be happy, Mary. Nothing more."

She lowers her head and presses his hand. "Goodbye, John." Then she is gone, from his house and his life, never to return. Watson looks down at the ring in his hand, trying to gauge its value. Still, though it was returned to him, it isn't his to give away, so he drops it into the drawer that holds his chequebook, pulls out two five-pound notes in return, and prepares to leave the empty silence of his rooms in exchange for the jeers and laughter of a drunken crowd.

He does not call on Holmes. He could not bear to learn that Holmes did meet up with Mary's parents; not tonight, in any case. His heart is quite cracked already; the hard certainty that his friend should be the cause for his unhappiness might well break it entirely. Best to hope it isn't so, then. Best not to think of it at all.

~~~

In the end, Holmes is the one to find him.

"You're winning, I see," he says mildly, one hand closing around Watson's elbow as he pulls him away from the baccarat table.

"Yes." Watson has been winning for the last two days, forty-eight pounds and change in his pockets. It's not as gratifying as it ought to be, and Holmes's use of the English language sounds strange to his ears after two days of hearing little but German and French. He yanks his arm from Holmes's grasp, stumbles, and would have gone down if Holmes hadn't reached for him again. He glowers, but Holmes is singularly immune to any kind of glare.

"You haven't shaved within the past forty-eight hours," Holmes observes, as casually unconcerned as if he were talking about the weather. His fingers dig into Watson's upper arm as they resume their meandering through the thinning crowd. "Neither have you changed your clothes. This is most uncommon for you, old boy."

"I didn't feel like it." Watson knows better than to ask Holmes what he's doing in what has to be the seediest dump in Clerkenwell. Any answer he might get would only be followed by more probing questions than he cares for right now, especially since he doesn't quite remember how or when he got here. If he keeps his answers short, perhaps Holmes will take pity on him.

Holmes, however, is rarely inclined towards pity.

"That much is obvious. Does Miss Morstan know of your _blatant_ disregard for respectability?"

Watson swallows hard, and not only because he's had too little food and too much drink to appease his stomach. He brushes against someone's shoulder and mutters an apology, receiving a German oath in reply. It sounds like a severe case of pertussis. Holmes opens the door – have they reached it already? – and they stumble outside, the cold December air like a slap in the face. The streets are dark, more gas lamps broken than not, and as Watson squints at the sky he can't make out a single star through the vague cloud of his breath. His leg twinges with the promise of rain, or possibly sleet.

"My cane-" he begins, only to feel the item in question pressed into his hand. "Where-?"

"The Old Bull and Bush," Holmes answers shortly, pulling him towards the hansom cab that is waiting for them across the street. "You're getting better at evading detection; I had a hard time tracking you from there."

It's clear from his expression that he's waiting for some kind of explanation, but Watson is beginning to feel rather queasy, a low headache building up between his temples. He relies on Holmes's dislike for questions such as 'What the hell were you thinking?' and clambers into the cab to lean his forehead against the cool wood.

"Baker Street," Holmes tells the cabbie once he's climbed in and closed the folding doors, and Watson doesn't protest as the hansom jolts into movement. The house at Cavendish Place is lovely, but familiarity offers its own comfort. So does Holmes, a silent presence at his side, his warmth bleeding through their clothes as Watson breathes slowly to clear his head. He nearly laughs at the thought of Sherlock Holmes, independent consulting detective and self-involved lunatic, being equated with comfort by anyone, but then Watson's own grip on sanity doesn't seem quite as firm these days as it once was.

"Mary's gone," he says finally, because for reasons unknown, Holmes has followed his meandering path across London and even rescued his cane. Watson could repay him with forty-eight pounds and thruppence, but Holmes has always valued knowledge over money.

Holmes stiffens next to him, and Watson cannot tell if it is from surprise or apprehension. The question 'Did you speak to Mary's parents?' lies uncomfortably on his tongue, but he swallows it down, feels it settle as a heavy lump in the pit of his stomach. He does not want to know. He _cannot_ know, not yet.

"I'm sorry," Holmes says after a long pause. Watson blinks away the stinging in his eyes at the honest regret in Holmes's voice, for Holmes may cheat, bribe and otherwise manipulate, but he rarely lies, and more rarely still does he lie to Watson. Even when he does, he's hardly ever very convincing. What Holmes never does, however, is apologise.

Watson merely nods, that damnable lump right back in his throat, if for a different reason. Had Holmes had any business with Mary's parents, he would have admitted it, made a dismissive remark, or changed the subject entirely. It's rather a greater relief than Watson had anticipated, to know he can yet call Holmes a friend.

When they arrive at Baker Street, Holmes ushers him out of the cab and up the stairs, unusually solicitous. He makes Watson drink enough water to drown a horse and all but fusses over him outright until Watson is safely bundled up on the settee. The strange reversal of their accustomed roles leaves Watson bemused and unbalanced, but any hope of discovering the reason for Holmes's peculiar behaviour is lost to the infernal pounding between his ears and the way the room seems to tilt and spin like a ship lost at sea.

He thinks he hears Holmes tell him goodnight, but the exhaustion of two days without rest pulls him under before he can reply.

He sleeps.

~~~

The next several days pass in a blur of activity. After waking up on that first, late morning, his head aching and his mouth tasting so foul as to compound his nausea, Watson finds himself dragged to the Yard to witness the brilliant conclusion of Holmes's latest investigation. And then all of a sudden, Holmes seems singularly unable to solve a single case, spend even one hour on his own. They follow clues all across London, until Watson's leg aches and Holmes's cheeks are red from the cold. They have dinner at The Royale, Goldini's, Simpson's. They watch The Tempest at the Vic and a pair of the oddest clowns Watson has ever seen at a passing circus. They share hansom cabs, train compartments, and once, memorably, a linen closet, until Watson feels dizzy from the prolonged proximity.

Holmes on his best days is a force of nature, a drug that can render a man an addict with a single dose if he survives the initial shock of a high so intense and chaotic that nothing ever quite compares. Watson has spent years suffering from this particular addiction, telling himself it was the adrenaline that kept pulling him in, not the man; not Holmes's quick smiles and his quicker wit or the way he will risk his life for beggars and scullery maids if he deems their cause a worthy one.

He doesn't understand why Holmes has latched on to him nearly from the beginning, but in his darkest hours he has to admit that he likes being Holmes's friend, partner and pupil. He likes to be trusted, needed even, without reserve or guile. Holmes treats him with a childish possessiveness that can be as gratifying as it is exasperating, and Watson, for all the apologies he keeps offering for Holmes's sometimes abominable behaviour, would not change him for the world.

Well, perhaps a few details.

"I do have patients, Holmes," he says for the third time, watching as the man in question glues a remarkably convincing scar to his left cheek. "The rent at Cavendish Place doesn't pay itself."

"Come now, Watson. You haven't spent more than three pounds over the last two weeks. Your rent is safer than it ever was with your chequebook out of my reach." Holmes scrunches up his nose and pops two pieces of resin into his nostrils, leaving them to appear broader than they usually do. "If all else fails, I suppose that with the proper incentive, Nanny may well take you back as a lodger." His voice is casual, but Watson knows him well enough to roll his eyes. "It would be a terrible inconvenience to me, of course. I find the extra room very practical for storage."

Watson very carefully does not look towards his former room, where papers and trinkets have met to generate their offspring on every available surface, as well as a few unavailable ones.

"Don't worry, old boy," he says, his own voice matching Holmes's for attitude, "I feel perfectly at home in my new house, and Gladstone loves Mrs. Arviston. Your storage space is quite safe."

He's lying, of course. Of the last ten nights, he has spent six on their old settee, and they were more restful than the other four. The house at Cavendish Place is too quiet, too neat, too void of personality, even if Gladstone _does_ flourish in the care of his housekeeper. Left to his own devices, Watson doubts he'd know what to do with all his time save stare at the unblemished walls and think of Mary. Always of Mary. _Only_ of Mary.

Holmes's hands still for a moment, barely long enough to notice, before they resume their work of turning Holmes into a stranger.

"Good," he says, and sniffs. "Good."

Watson squints at him. That tone sounded… odd. But Holmes's expression betrays nothing, so he lets it go.

"So," he says, picking up a tin filled with a thick, lumpy paste of a truly vile blackish brown, "I'm afraid you'll have to go alone tonight."

"Of course," Holmes says calmly, and snatches the tin out of Watson's hand to blacken several of his teeth. "You have more important things to do. I understand."

His sudden, almost cheerful acquiescence isn't reassuring as much as it is unsettling. Watson frowns at him.

"You do?" he asks, somewhat doubtful.

"Of course," Holmes repeats, smiling a stranger's smile as he rises and claps Watson on the shoulder. The scar on his cheek tilts rather scarily. "You, Watson, are a doctor. You take care of sick people."

"I do," Watson agrees, his voice coloured with suspicion. He has been caught in Holmes's circular arguments far too many times not to recognise one in the making.

Holmes gives a satisfied little hum. "Splendid," he says. "It speaks quite highly of your character."

Warning bells are ringing in Watson's mind by now and, figuring that a quick escape might be his best bet, he makes his way towards the door. "Good luck then."

The very tips of his fingers are only just brushing against the doorknob when Holmes calls after him, "Oh, by the way. I would like to make an appointment for tomorrow morning. Noon, perhaps, if you're too busy, but I'd really prefer an early engagement."

Watson sighs and turns back around. "Why?" he asks warily.

Holmes waves a hand in the air as if to say that it is nothing, old cock, merely a trifle. "It's nothing, old cock, merely a trifle." Watson rolls his eyes, but Holmes continues, "Lord Holburn is well-known to be a man of excellent foresight. He will have hired at least five men, possibly more, to intercept anyone who might prevent his marriage to the unfortunate Miss Wood. Since you are sending me out alone tonight -"

"Holmes," Watson interrupts, or tries to, but Holmes talks right over him.

"- I anticipate at least two broken bones, possibly a fractured jaw, and quite likely a variety of lacerations. I expect to emerge victorious, of course," he adds, "but please don't blame yourself for my death if I do not return. I'm sure Mrs. Haversham's bunions will thank you for your presence in London."

Silence stretches out between them. Holmes is still smiling.

"You," Watson says with sincere admiration, "are the Devil."

"I'll buy you an apple for lunch." Holmes winks and Watson laughs, but it's a rueful sound, even if he is the only one to identify it as such. He is no Eve and Baker Street certainly isn't Paradise, but if Holmes were the one to offer him a forbidden fruit, he'd probably take it nevertheless. He has a habit of following Holmes's lead, and that, more than anything, is what makes him question his sanity sometimes.

And still, when Holmes steps into the street not half an hour later, unrecognisable to anyone save perhaps his brother, Watson is there, right at his elbow.

Where else would he go?

~~~

Lord Holburn's foresight is indeed excellent. He is also remarkably well-versed in the art of disguise, and so there develops between him and Holmes the queerest game of cat-and-mouse ever played between an independent consulting detective and his quarry. Holmes's own camouflages turn ever-more outrageous as the week progresses, leaving Watson to watch half in amusement, half in awe as his friend turns into a wisp of a clergyman, a broad-shouldered mariner, a beggar, a lord, a carnival barker.

"No," Watson says with finality, and the, squinting at the colourful dress Holmes just presented with a flourish, "Is that one of Flora's?" His head is starting to ache already, and it is not even six in the morning. He thinks longingly of his bed, and inwardly curses certain people of his acquaintance, with their manic energy and disregard for others' need for rest.

Holmes sniffs. "Really, Watson, you're being quite unreasonable."

"Does she know you have it?" Watson presses on, for while Holmes is a source of both entertainment and the occasional coin for Flora, he doubts she would take kindly to the theft of her possessions.

"Lord Holburn must marry Miss Wood today if his plans are to be successful," Holmes says airily. He flings the dress over the back of the settee and starts to unbutton his shirt. "He'll have the chapel well-guarded, but his mercenaries will hardly see much danger in the approach of a peasant woman."

"What did you give her for it?" Watson crosses his arms and glares at Holmes. "My coat isn't at the cleaners, is it?"

"Flora doesn't mind the stains." Holmes's expression is perfectly unconcerned as he strips of his shirt. He has a fading bruise beneath his left collarbone; a shallow cut draws a line of slowly-healing red across the right side of his ribcage. Watson looks away.

His gaze lights on the fireplace and the logs burning merrily within, and the idea hasn't even fully formed in his mind before he grabs the dress and throws it into the flames. Holmes shouts in protest, but the fabric has already caught on fire and moments later, the room starts to fill with noxious smoke. It takes only a few strides to reach the windows and pull them wide open, clutter landing on the floor in heaps, the early morning air freezing as it rolls into the room. Watson takes a deep breath and shivers. Beside him, Holmes does the same, his naked torso covered in gooseflesh.

"Nanny will not be happy with you," he says mildly.

"I'll tell her it was one of your experiments," Watson returns, smiling slightly. He will do no such thing, and they both know it. They look out at the quiet city for a while, the streets still empty and lit only by gaslights at this early hour, their breaths mingling as white clouds in the crisp air.

"Well," Holmes says at length, "since you just burned the means to my cunning plan, you must of course provide me with your assistance."

"I suppose I must," Watson agrees. He's known since Holmes woke him up that there would be violence in his immediate future – and, despite his initial reaction, that he wouldn't be directing that violence against Holmes – but if he has to face down at least five ruffians, a power-hungry peer of the realm, and a corrupt priest, he will not do it while Holmes is wearing a dress. And while he cannot be sure – with Holmes, no one ever entirely can – he strongly suspects that Holmes never intended to wear the dress so much as to make certain that Watson would accompany him with a minimum amount of fuss.

Heavens forbid the man should simply ask for help.

Holmes claps him on the shoulder and flashes him a sharp smile, as if he knows exactly what Watson is thinking, which is entirely within the realms of possibility. If only the reverse were true as well, but then Watson doesn't even know what he is feeling, on most days. He watches Holmes cross the room and snatch up his discarded shirt, muscles playing beneath pale skin, and wonders if he's truly turning mad this time.

Holmes hums suddenly and digs into his trouser pocket, pulling out a small paper bag which he throws to Watson, who catches it easily.

"Humbugs," Holmes says at Watson's questioning gaze. "I know how you much like to ruin your teeth."

Madness, it must be. It's the only explanation for the way Watson's heart is bouncing against the confines of his ribcage. Madness, or possibly some kind of physical affliction, for there is no way he should be so touched at Holmes bringing him sweets.

"Thank you," he rasps, but Holmes has already disappeared into his bedroom.

The humbugs are individually wrapped so they don't stick together, but they are still warm from Holmes's body heat. Peppermint blossoms sharp and sweet on Watson's tongue as he pushes one into his mouth, his back still to the open window, London lying at his feet. Peppermint, not apples, but it still feels like he's tasted something forbidden, something that will cost him his peace of mind with no hopes of getting it back.

"You're a fool," he whispers to himself, but like every other time, it changes nothing at all.

~~~

Bally Lord Holburn has hired seven men, in fact, and all of them well worth their money. Watson receives a blow to the head that has his ears ringing, a kick to his bad leg that sends tears to his eyes, and his back all but breaks when one of the blaggards slams him through the chapel door.

All of that is nothing against the twisting horror of seeing Holmes go down, blood blooming brightly red on the side of his shirt. Watson lets out a wordless cry, wrenches free from the two men holding him down, and hits one of them over the head with his cane hard enough to send him to the ground, unmoving. The second man stares at his fallen confederate, eyes wide, only to clutch at his throat when Watson's next blow crushes his windpipe. With the two of them out of the game, Watson turns towards the man who drew Sherlock Holmes's blood.

Lord Holburn is dressed for the occasion of his marriage, his black suit well-tailored and tasteful. He is standing over Holmes, a sword-cane of his own held to the detective's throat, and his smile is the coldest one Watson has ever seen. There is murder in his eyes, the calm madness of someone who will stop at nothing to reach his goals, and who is well-aware that Holmes presents an obstacle which will have to be removed.

There is no way that Watson will reach him before the blade is driven into Holmes's throat.

Holmes, for all his pale face is calm, knows this as well. When his eyes meet Watson's, his gaze conveys regret, a silent apology for miscalculating, for this being the day someone finally gets the better of him, and possibly of Watson as well.

Some intangible dam inside Watson breaks, one whose foundation has been cracking for a long time, and a flood of denial, grief, and irrepressible anger washes away all rational thought. Watson's family is dead, his fiancée has left him, and his dog barely recognises him anymore. He will _not_ let his friend die on a dirty chapel floor, killed by one who holds himself above all moral judgement.

A sword-cane makes for a bad projectile, but Watson hurls it with all his might. It flies through the air in a graceful arc, spinning in three neat circles before the heavy metal knob hits the villainous lord in the centre of his forehead.

The man goes down like a felled tree.

For a moment, everything is silent. The gagged and bound bride, the paid-off priest, the two remaining henchman, even Holmes; all staring at the unconscious – or possibly dead, not that Watson would mourn his passing – man on the floor.

Then Holmes starts laughing, and it's as if the sound breaks a spell that has been cast around him. The ruffians run away, as does the priest. Miss Wood sinks to the floor, still staring, and Watson rushes to see how badly Holmes is hurt. His hands have barely touched the fabric of Holmes's shirt, when Holmes's hand closes heavy and warm around his shoulder.

"Well done, old boy." Holmes appears to be looking for words, but the sincere giving of compliments has never come easy to him, and so he merely repeats, "Very well done."

Watson cannot suppress the pleased little smile that fights its way onto his lips, nor the spreading of it when he finds the cut in Holmes's side to be neither deep nor serious.

"Luck," he demurs a little breathlessly, although he doesn't quite know if he means his throw or Holmes's wound.

"Skill," Holmes retorts, and they grin at each other until Miss Wood loses patience with them and makes muffled demands to cut her loose.

~~~

Naturally, Holmes throws them straight into the next case, a convoluted affair involving a horse, a murder, and a drugged curry dish, all of which he lays out before Watson in a lengthy explanation over breakfast.

Watson wants to indulge him, he truly does, for the thought of spending his time alone in an empty house has not become any more appealing over the last three weeks and Holmes, despite the airs he likes to put on, is ill-suited to dealing with solitude. But he is tired. After three weeks of Holmes dragging him every which way in his efforts to distract him, he feels the weariness of his body all the way down to the marrow of his bones. He is, quite simply, exhausted, and for all his gratitude he knows they cannot carry on like this.

"Holmes," he says, interrupting a monologue on race horses and why Watson should consider himself lucky that he never took up betting on them, "it's quite enough, don't you think?"

Holmes blinks at him, then he leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"I know what you are doing," Watson tells him firmly, "but as much as I…" he casts around for the right word to convey his thankfulness, and failing to find it, "admire your dedication, you have to stop."

To his dismay, his words seem to have the opposite effect than he intended. Holmes pales, his lips parted slightly as he drops his gaze to the remains of his breakfast. Watson hurries to explain, "It's not that I have no appreciation for your efforts, but I cannot… I'm tired, Holmes," he says lamely. "I want to sleep in my own bed and see my dog more than once in a fortnight. I want to go _home._ "

If anything, he seems to have made matters worse. Holmes is out of his chair in an instant, one hand running through his hair as the other clenches into a fist at his side. He steps over to the window, peers out into the street with his spine as straight as a ruler, and finally turns back around to shoot Watson a smile so fake it may as well be absent.

"Yes, of course," he says, still refusing to meet Watson's eyes, "we shall remain friends." His voice sounds… wrong, almost bitter, and Watson has never felt so lost in a conversation with Holmes, not even when they were but strangers sharing rooms.

"I…" he begins, but once again the words desert him. He wants to ask what is wrong, wants to know what he did so he can undo it or at least attempt to make it better, but even if he could formulate the question, he knows that Holmes won't give him an answer. Not now. "Are you all right?" he asks regardless, for he cannot stand to see that expression on Holmes's face. Like he's one step from taking to the cocaine bottle, something he hasn't done in three weeks.

Holmes smiles again, a little more convincingly this time. "Perfectly," he says, "though I'm afraid I must leave you to your toast. I have a train to catch, after all."

He's gone before Watson can say anything more, rushing into his bedroom and out of the door with a speed which conveys quite clearly that he doesn't want Watson to speak to him in any case. Watson is left sitting at the table, still holding the butter knife as he stares at the closed door.

"What was that?" he asks the room at large. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't get an answer.

~~~

Watson spends a glorious day doing little but indulge his want for sleep, although a part of him feels guilty for his sloth. Once rested, he takes a long, hot bath, takes Gladstone for a walk, calls on the few patients who haven't yet deserted him, and finally sits down to commit the cases of the last three weeks to paper. This, along with his patients' appointments, occupies him for the better part of five days – Christmas would pass him by entirely unnoticed if not for Mrs. Arviston's mince pies and Christmas pudding – distracting his mind as his leg is allowed to recover from the strains he heaped upon it.

Then he is done, notebooks filled, pen dropping from his aching fingers, nothing around him but silence and empty rooms. If he opened the door to his study, perhaps he could hear Mrs. Arviston putter about in the kitchen, provided she has already returned from the market, having taken Gladstone along with her. For all intents and purposes, he is alone with his thoughts, and it may be the pleasant exhaustion of a day spent writing or the absence of company, but when he finds his thoughts turn towards Mary, he does not attempt to redirect them.

He misses her. Of course he does; four weeks aren't nearly enough time to banish a person from one's heart, even should he wish to do so. Part of him will likely miss her forever. And yet the pain of her leaving is a distant one, like a healing scar that still looks red and raw, but has already mended the worst of the damage. She is gone, and for the first time he realises that he will survive her absence, however bittersweet the memory of her smile might remain.

He leans back in his chair, stunned at this revelation, but grateful. His love might be gone, but his life hasn't ended, and he has Holmes to thank for that. Holmes, who pulled him away from the tables and gave him direction; who took the lead and refused to let Watson brood over his losses.

Holmes, who hasn't called upon him once since he left six days ago and is conspicuously absent whenever Watson's walks lead him near Baker Street.

This is a wound that stings, all the more for Watson's inability to understand what caused his friend's sudden withdrawal. Holmes's complete absence baffles and, yes, hurts him more than he expected, considering that Holmes is predictable only in his unpredictability. There is no reason he can discern, nothing which would explain the way Holmes has cut him off to leave him hopelessly adrift, like a kite with a torn string, caught in a vicious updraft.

"And what are you doing, you fool?" he chastises himself, thoroughly exasperated. "You're moping like a maiden aunt."

This sitting around simply will not do. He's a doctor, a former soldier, and while good things may come to those who wait, Watson has never had the patience for inactivity.

If Holmes is avoiding him, he will clearly have to give chase.

~~~

The true revelation of the day, when it finally comes, hits him hard enough to make him stop in his tracks, lest he stagger into the nearest wall.

It has turned early evening, people in heavy winter coats hurrying down the gas-lit streets to finish their last errands and warm their hands by the fire. Watson has his belated Christmas present to Holmes – a set of three new pipes, for Holmes keeps complaining that after his jump into the questionable waters of the Thames, the old one has never quite tasted the same – tucked under his free arm, carefully navigating the frozen pavement with the help of his cane as he makes his way towards Baker Street. A young couple, the man no more than twenty from the boyish looks of him, pass him by, talking excitedly about the play they're going to see.

"I've never been to the Vic before," the woman is saying, smiling brightly. "I'm so excited!"

"The Tempest is a divine play," the man says, and adds, charmingly, "but Miranda could never be as beautiful as you."

The woman giggles and says something else, but Watson isn't listening anymore, standing frozen on the icy street and feeling very much like his own cane has just hit him right between the eyes, metal knob and all.

"Doubtless young Ferdinand shares some of your temperament," Holmes had said when the character in question had gushed on and on about the beauty and perfection of his new-found love, Miranda. Nettled, for he had always thought Ferdinand to be rather shallow, Watson had snapped, "I am nothing like him," and after a brief pause, Holmes had said, "No, I suppose you are not."

At the time, the remark seemed off-handed, almost conciliatory if one didn't know Holmes, but now Watson could swear there was something wistful in the tone of Holmes's voice; something that has been there for a long time.

Theatre, concerts, cases, dinners… "Dear Lord," Watson whispers, clutching helplessly at the package under his arm as he leans heavily on his cane. "Dear Lord in Heaven."

He'd thought that Holmes had gone out of his way to provide him with distractions, when in truth Holmes had been… had been _wooing_ him. Holmes had brought him every proof of his affection, and all the while he had just been waiting for Watson to notice, never once thinking to declare his intentions, for why say something straightaway if it could be deduced?

Trust Holmes to approach the subject of courting someone in a decidedly sideways fashion.

And Watson told him not to bother.

"Dear Lord," he says again, stunned. What a bonny mess he's made.

~~~

Holmes has his chemical set assembled on the table by the window, the terrestrial globe that usually sits on top of it now perched precariously on a stack of papers. Two lamps are lit left and right of the ongoing experiment, which for once seems to consist of nothing more than liquids being mixed, heated up, and tested on strips of litmus paper. Nothing is burning or even smoking, except for Holmes's Bunsen burner, and the smell is entirely inoffensive. Watson isn't entirely sure he should be comforted by this.

"Watson," Holmes says as soon as the door opens, like he hasn't spent the last several days doing his best to avoid Watson altogether, "I have created a soap that does not irritate the skin after shaving."

He does not look up from his experiment, but there is triumph in his voice, the satisfaction of having once again succeeded where other men failed, and for a dizzying moment Watson is convinced that, were he to open his mouth right now, his heart would leap straight out of it. As it is, he has to swallow twice against the lump low in his throat.

"I failed you," he says hoarsely, the true dimensions of what he nearly gave away only now dawning upon him. Dear God, he must have been blind.

Holmes movements stop for one brief instant. "Nonsense," he says dismissively, arranging the differently-coloured pieces of litmus paper on the table just so. He looks… dimmed, somehow. Not quite sure of himself, and for Sherlock Holmes, even the appearance of uncertainty strikes Watson as terribly, achingly wrong. He watches as Holmes reaches for a pipette, but pauses before he dips it into the next test glass, his natural curiosity getting the better of him. "In what way?"

Watson sets the present on the chair by the door and takes another step into the room, closing the door behind him. Being here feels right in a way he cannot explain, but he will have to clear the air between them if these rooms are ever to be a home to him again.

"I saw," he says, "but I did not observe." He smiles ruefully. "I'm afraid the years you spent trying to teach me your methods were quite wasted, my dear…" _chap,_ he wants to say, _my dear chap,_ but for some reason his tongue will not cooperate, leaving them both with a quite different endearment.

Holmes sits entirely still for an interminable moment. Then he finally looks up, dark eyes flicking over Watson as they take in his expression, his body language, his bated breath, and no doubt a dozen or more other clues that Watson wouldn't know how to identify, let alone decipher. He has never felt this transparent, even after years in Holmes's acquaintance, but it isn't before Holmes's lips twitch into a small smile that he dares to breathe again.

Holmes steeples his fingers together and blatantly looks Watson up and down, his confidence obviously returned in full. Watson feels his cheeks flush, which is really rather ridiculous. He has not even unbuttoned his coat, for Heaven's sake.

"You have come at an inopportune time, I'm afraid," Holmes says, but Watson knows him well enough by now to identify the half-truth in his words. "This experiment must not be left alone for long, or the rooms might catch on fire. I cannot grant you more than an hour."

"I'll be quick," Watson says dryly, and the grin Holmes shoots him is filled with such open delight that breathing becomes quite difficult all over again.

In a moment, Holmes will unbutton Watson's heavy coat and let it drop wherever they stand. He will devote himself to the task of figuring Watson out completely, discover every secret place of Watson's body, render him speechless and breathless and be unbearably smug about it, leaving Watson no option but to kiss the smirk off his face. Watson in turn will run his fingers over naked skin, for once a lover's touch and not a healer's ministrations, and Holmes will give himself over completely, for he has never understood the point of moderation. They will hurt each other, and love each other, and it will be glorious.

He can hardly wait.

Holmes stands up, still grinning as he tilts his head towards his bedroom, and Watson follows him, because he always does.

Where else would he go?

~~~

The rooms do catch on fire after not quite fifty minutes, but the damage is minimal and Mrs. Hudson forgives them. Eventually.

~~~

 **Epilogue**

Moving back into 221B Baker Street takes Watson the better part of two days, if only because Holmes will not lift a finger to help. His patients have taken the news of his returning to his former location with dismay, and he wonders if it is worth the time to set up his practice at all, if no one will come to him.

Perhaps he should move to making house calls altogether.

His leg aches abominably when he sinks into his chair on the evening of the second day, his possessions stowed away for Holmes to use at will, Gladstone enjoying a natural sleep in front of the fireplace. Holmes has been out all day, claiming urgent business when Watson knows perfectly well that he simply doesn't want to assist with carrying the furniture, and returned only half an hour ago, his nose and cheeks reddened from the cold. Watson barely resists standing up to kiss the warmth back into his skin, but the pain in his leg helps him keep his composure.

"It's true what they say," he muses as he watches Holmes stride over to his violin without so much as a glance in Watson's direction. "Romance is indeed quite dead."

Holmes flashes him a sharp smile and tosses him a small paper bag before he picks up the instrument and settles down on the floor next to Watson's chair, his body pressed against Watson's good leg as he tucks the violin under his chin and raises the bow with a flourish.

Watson leans back and closes his eyes, peppermint dissolving on his tongue as Holmes starts to play, for once truly and unreservedly happy.


End file.
